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by withoutaplease



Series: Boyfriend Sam [6]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam helps reader come to terms with who she is and where she belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x female reader  
> Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, smut  
> Author’s Note: I think this one was so hard to finish because I’m really going to miss this guy. Thanks for reading, and thanks for loving Boyfriend!Sam as much as I do.

“So hey, I was reading about dream symbolism, and apparently if you’re dreaming about a loved one being possessed, it means you’re feeling threatened by something going on in their life.”

               It’s getting late, and you turn off the television and get up from the couch, making your way to your bedroom.  You switch your phone to the other ear.

               “Really, Sam? Dream interpretation?” you say, skeptically. “I thought that was all fake psychic bullshit.”

               “Well, there was nothing in the demon lore . . .” he says, a little defensively.  You soften immediately.

               “I’m sorry,” you reply quickly, realizing you’re just being irritable, and he’s just trying to help. “What I should have said was, ‘thank you.’ I’m just really -”

               “Tired,” he finishes. “I know.  It’s not any better at all?”

               You get into your bed, still unmade from the night before.  The truth is, you’ve spent the last couple weeks more or less drifting back and forth from bed to couch and back again, time passing in a drowsy haze.  When you decided to come home, you thought that it would help you find your footing again, that time and space away from Sam and from hunting would centre you.  That your independence was the source of your strength.  Only now that you’re here, it’s just an empty room with an empty bed, and you no longer feel like you belong in it.  The closest thing to “home” here is Sam’s voice on the other end of the phone, and the nightmares haven’t let up in the slightest. You sigh.

               “Not really,” you admit reluctantly, not wanting him to worry, knowing you can’t stop him.

               “Well,” he says cautiously, “then what have you got to lose? It can’t _all_ be fake psychic bullshit.”

               You chuckle a little, despite yourself.  “All right,” you say. “So I’m feeling threatened by something going on in my aunt’s life.”

               “Right,” Sam says.

               “But she’s dead,” you counter.

               “Okay . . .” he says, “So, maybe it was something from before she died?”

               “She was a hunter,” you reply. “Her whole life was threatening.”

               “Well, maybe there’s something there,” he says.   “Might be worth thinking about, anyway.”

               “I will,” you concede.  Then, to change the subject, “How are you? How’s Dean?”

               “Good,” he says, “we’re good.  I think Dean really misses your cooking.”

               “Just Dean?” you ask, grinning. “Not you?”

               He laughs.  “Believe me,” he says, “I miss a lot more than your cooking.”

               “I miss you, too,” you say, suddenly sentimental in your sleepiness.  “This was the worst idea.”

               “You’re going to figure it out,” he says, with a quiet finality you find difficult to refute.  “I’ll be here when you do.”

               “Thank you,” you say, the words trailed by a yawn.  “I think I’m gonna try to get a few hours’ sleep.”

               “Hang on,” he says, with a familiar ring of mischief. “You’re in bed right now?”

               “Yes . . .” you answer.

               You can hear the grin in his voice. “. . . What are you wearing?”

               You giggle. “Goodnight, Sam,” you say, switching off your bedside lamp.

               He chuckles. “I’ll call you soon,” he says, “Goodnight.” Then the phone goes quiet.

               Three hours later, like clockwork, you startle awake.  Groaning, you get up, stumble your way into the kitchen, and go about putting on a pot of coffee while you wait for your heart rate to slow back to normal.   You’re about to set up camp for another mindless day in front of the TV when you think back to your conversation with Sam, and what he said about your dream.  You’d only been humouring him, but he was right about one thing – you have nothing to lose.  Taking advantage of the brief respite from exhaustion the coffee provides, you dig a pen and notepad out of your junk drawer, sit down at the table, and start to write.

               When you’re finished, you head over to the couch to await the daylight.  About twenty minutes into an old episode of _The X-Files_ , you nod off to sleep.  It only lasts a couple of hours, but for once, it doesn’t end in panic.  In fact, when you wake up, you don’t remember dreaming at all.

* * * * *

               Just before first light, you’re dressed and out the door, scraping frost off your windshield.  Sitting in the car as it idles, waiting for the heat to kick in, you pull the letter out of your pocket and read it over again.  You’re still doubtful it could be as easy as this, but at the same time, you can’t deny feeling a little more like yourself for simply having written it.  The fresh air helps, too, even if it’s on its way to biting cold.  You fold the note up carefully and tuck it back into your coat.  Shifting your car into drive, you pull out onto the empty street and head toward the sunrise, smiling at the memory it evokes of a fiery autumn valley, now far away in time and distance.

               The cemetery is situated on the outskirts of town, and as you pull into the tiny parking lot, you see that nobody’s bothered to plow it since the snow fell a few weeks ago.  There isn’t a lot of graveyard traffic in a town where nothing ever happens. Still, you see a few sets of footprints here and there, and as you walk carefully through the rows of headstones, silent except for the wind and your own boots hitting the icy walkway, you see a few have been carefully tended; snow brushed away, hurricane candles flickering, flowers freezing and browning on the ground.

               You reach your aunt’s marker and find that it’s been cared for, too, no doubt by your mother. You feel a momentary pang of guilt, picturing your mother lovingly tending an empty grave, not knowing the remains of her sister-in-law were really laid to rest deep in the woods, on a lonely pyre.  But it passes as soon as it starts, when you realize with a chuckle that you’re here to visit, too, and you’re fully aware of the truth.  _Symbolism_ , you remind yourself.

               You take the letter you wrote for your aunt out of your coat and unfold it, clearing your throat.  You look dubiously at the headstone for a moment, sigh, and start to read aloud.

               _I don’t know how I’m supposed to start this. With everything you ever taught me about the dead, you never taught me how to talk to them.  So I’m just going to talk, and hope that somewhere, you’re listening._

_I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry that I wasn’t strong enough to save you on my own.  If it makes you feel any better, the vampires are dead. I got them.  We got them, I should say.  Me, and the Winchesters._

_I guess I’m sorry about that, too.  For not listening.  For getting involved with them when I promised you I never would.  For nearly getting myself killed because of it. Feel free to say, “I told you so.”_

_Here’s the thing, though.  This job we do? Nobody should do it on their own.  You didn’t.  You brought me into this life when you didn’t have to, and you knew it would put me at risk, but you did it anyway.  I don’t blame you for that – hell, I asked for it – but you did it because you needed a partner.  Now you’re gone, and I’m the one who needs a partner.  I need Sam._

_And I’m kind of done feeling guilty about that, okay? You taught me how to be strong and how to protect myself and I’m grateful.  You also taught me that the reason we do this is to keep our loved ones safe.  Well, I can’t do that if I’m running away from him.  And maybe it’s not a weakness, after all, to let him do the same for me._

_You showed me this world, but I’m the one who has to live in it, and I’ve got to go all in.  You’re just going to have to understand. I love you. I’m going back._

               You stand and stare for a long while, hands stuffed in pockets, feet shuffling, waiting for . . . anything.  You’re not expecting an apparition or a beam of light to break through the clouds, but maybe a sense of peace? Of resolution? Anything other than what you feel now, which is only the cold and the sluggish, syrupy sense of exhaustion returning to muddle your mind.  Soon enough, the sky starts to darken over, threatening sleet.  You trace your fingers lightly over your aunt’s name etched in the frigid stone, a kind of silent farewell, and then you turn away and hustle through the bitter wind back to your car and the rest of your life.

* * * * *

               In the dream, it’s your fourteenth birthday, and your aunt has taken you to a tattoo parlour.  Your heart races as you climb up into the artist’s chair, but she smiles and holds your hand reassuringly.  When the needle makes contact with your skin, it’s not as bad as you feared.  No worse than a cat scratch.  You focus on your breathing, inhaling and exhaling the anxiety away.  Your aunt smiles proudly at your bravery.

               In the dream, it’s over before you know it, and as your aunt thanks the artist for his work and goes to pay him, you get up, a little light-headed, and admire yourself in the mirror.  The fresh ink on your ribcage, a kind of pentagram to match your aunt’s, stands out bold and shiny and raised against the red skin around it.  You’re not supposed to touch, but you do, anyway.  It doesn’t hurt. You feel good. You feel changed.  You feel strong.

               You turn to look at her as she comes back to join you at the mirror, and she smiles and kisses your cheek.  “It looks good on ya,” she says, and when you look at the mirror again, you’re not 14 anymore, but as you are now, grown. 

               “I’m sorry I let you down,” you say, as the two of you look at your reflections.

               She smiles sadly and shakes her head. “I’m the one who let you down.  I brought you here.  I brought you into this life because I didn’t want to do it alone.  Now look at you.  You’re brave, and you’re strong, and you survived when I couldn’t. Who the hell am I to tell you how to live now?” She laughs, and slings an arm around you.  “Besides,” she says conspiratorially, “he’s cute.  They’re _both_ cute.  If I were still around, his brother’d be in big trouble.”

               You squeeze your eyes closed, laughing even as tears threaten at their corners.  When you open them again, you see only your own reflection in the mirror. 

* * * * *

               One week later, you’ve been up for hours – on purpose – on a crisp, sunny morning. Packing up is tiring work, but not tiring enough to wipe away the little permanent smile that’s fixed itself on your face since that day you woke up rested for the first time since the warehouse.  You’d given it another couple nights, just to be certain, and then when you couldn’t contain your excitement anymore, you’d texted Sam: _It worked, you beautiful genius. It worked._ You’d decided to go back regardless, but to go back strong, whole, was better than you’d dared hope for.  Now, as you’re sorting through the relics of your former life and selecting the things you’ll bring to your new one, your thoughts are very much elsewhere. A day ahead, to be precise, when you’ll pull into the bunker’s car port and return to the arms that you never should have left in the first place.

               Mid-morning, your stomach starts to growl, and you bundle up to venture out for food, having already cleared out your cupboards. Dashing out the door with your mind on breakfast and on reaching your car before the wind can sting your face off, you don’t see Sam standing on your steps until you literally run right into him. He laughs out loud and catches you in his arms as you smack face-first into a wall of muscle, unmistakable even under several layers of winter clothes. You stay put for a good thirty seconds, nose buried, familiar scent of deodorant and laundry soap and _Sam_ assuring you that this is real, he is here, the wait is over.

               He pulls away slightly and ducks his head to look at you. “You okay?” he asks, grinning, as you stubbornly continue to nuzzle him.

               “You surprised me,” you answer, voice muffled.

               “That was kind of the idea,” he says. He lifts your face then with frigid fingers, and when you look up to meet his gaze, his eyes shining and his cheeks flushed with the cold, your smile widens reflexively to match his, relieved and brilliant.  “Hi,” he says, softly through his smile, catching the corner of his lip in his teeth.

               “Hi,” you reply, staring in mild disbelief, heart racing once again, this time for all the right reasons. For a moment, time seems to stop except for those heartbeats in your ears, until you think the happiness swelling in your chest is going to spill right over.  And then he’s kissing you, _oh_ , he’s kissing you, and everything snaps into motion again.

               You fumble back for the door knob and twist it open while his fingers warm themselves in your hair and your tongues get reacquainted. The two of you stumble as one back inside your apartment, and once he waves the door shut behind him, it becomes a race to get out of all those layers of clothes.  Words spill out breathlessly between kisses. “What are you doing here?” you ask against his jaw as he wrestles his coat off his arms.  He sucks your lower lip into his mouth and slips the tip of his tongue along it before he breaks away to answer.

               “I missed you,” he says huskily, pulling you in for another deep, insistent kiss as he kicks off his shoes.

               “I was coming tomorrow,” you say when you break away again, dropping your own coat to the floor and starting on the buttons of his flannel.

               “I couldn’t wait,” he breathes against your neck, before his tongue flicks out against your pulse point.

               “You couldn’t wait another day?” you ask, gasping as he pulls aside the collar of your shirt and sinks his teeth gently into your shoulder. He runs his hands swiftly up under the shirt and pulls it up and off over your head.

               “I couldn’t wait another minute,” he answers, corner of his mouth curling upwards for a moment as he scans his eyes over you and shrugs his flannel off his shoulders.  His fingers, still icy enough to give you goosebumps, splay themselves around the sides of your waist as he pulls you in close.  Any chill you feel is quickly thawed by the rush of warmth that floods your center as his hips swivel into yours and you feel him, already hard, pressing up against your belly.  His lips catch yours again, and your tongues slipping alongside each other take the conversation away.

               You slide your hands up under the hem of his t-shirt, the skin of his torso smooth and taut and warm beneath your fingertips.  He takes the cue, releasing your waist to pull off the t-shirt and toss it aside.  You look up at him, his lips parted and hair mussed, and grin.  Then you hook your index finger into the waistband of his jeans and pull him along with you to your bedroom, where you’re suddenly quite grateful you haven’t gotten around to taking apart your bed.

               He’s got you laid out on it in a second, legs apart, pinned under his weight as his erection presses into the seam of your jeans and you moan, loudly.  He groans against your neck in response, covering it in deep, aggressive kisses that leave a trail of marks along skin where the last ones have only just faded.  His fingers push up under your bra to release your breasts, and he grinds his hips into you, hard, as he catches your nipples between thumbs and forefingers.  You moan again, even louder, and your back arches up off the bed.  He wasn’t kidding; he’s not about to wait this time.

               If you had any doubt left about whether he’s truly missed you, that doubt is fading fast now that he’s pulling at the button of your fly like he can’t get you naked quickly enough.  You wriggle out from under him to help, first pulling your bra up over your head and then pushing your jeans down over your hips.  He kneels on the bed in front of you, unzipping his own jeans while he watches you undress with a ravenous expression.  You smile teasingly at him as you slip your panties down and off your legs, dropping them off the side of the bed.  He answers by pushing his jeans and his boxer-briefs down, cock springing free, alert and perfect.  You pause for just a moment, just to look, to enjoy the feeling of being drunk on him again, and then his jeans are off and there’s a condom resting between two fingers of his right hand and he’s telling you, softly but firmly, to “Roll over.”

               You comply, because of course you do, in this moment you want whatever he wants, and you hold your ass raised just slightly in the air in anticipation, grinning as you listen to the crinkle of the condom wrapper in his hands.  Then he’s running his hands up the backs of your legs, pausing to squeeze when he reaches your ass.  You sigh blissfully, and then his tongue begins a long, slow journey from the base of your spine to the back of your neck, setting every one of your nerves on edge. 

               His face settles in against your ear, then, and his panting breath against it sends shivers down your spine.  His cock rubs tantalizingly between the slick, throbbing folds of your pussy, and as soon as he’s positioned himself at your opening, ready to thrust into you, he brings one hand up to pull your head back by the hair.  “Fuck me,” you say with a whimper, and now it’s his turn to comply.  He pushes inside you with one long, steady thrust and, when he’s bottomed out, you both moan, neither one aware of just how much you missed this until it’s here,  you’re here, where you belong.

               He tries to fuck you slowly, but it’s hard to hold back, and you understand, raising your hips up off the bed to meet his every demanding thrust.  _There’s time enough for slow_ , you think, when you can think at all, with the way the head of his cock is pushing into your g-spot with every upswing and his fingers maintain their iron grip on your hair.  Before you know it, you hear yourself screaming, and he’s grunting, and the bed frame is creaking, and you’re coming apart in the best possible way.  Then he’s releasing your hair and thrusting his hand down between your legs instead, propping himself up on one hand and rubbing frantic circles around your clit with the other, urging you to come with him as the jerking of his hips tells you there’s no time to lose.

               It’s time enough. Between his fingers and his cock and the fact that he’s here at all, you sink down under waves of pleasure as easily as sinking into a warm bath.  You’re vaguely aware that he’s twitching and groaning on top of you, but it’s far away, in the background, as the contractions in your core, sweet and insistent and almost too much, demand your attention.  The two of you collapse together, panting and beaded with sweat, his lips laying soft, delicate kisses against the bite marks he’s already left on your shoulders. Between the weight of his body above you and the mattress beneath, you feel like you could melt away entirely.  It’s not an unwelcome feeling.

               Right around the time the sensation returns to your extremities, the growling in your stomach returns with a vengeance.  “Hungry?” Sam asks with a grin, palm of his hand sliding down to nearly cover your belly as you lay on your back with your head nestled against his shoulder.

               “That’s where I was going when you magically appeared,” you explain.  “No food in the house.”

               He sits up immediately, interest piqued.  “Let’s go,” he says, eagerly. “I’m starved.”

               You retrace your steps from bed to front door, lazily retrieving the layers of clothing that were hastily peeled away the hour before.  When the two of you step outside, back into the cold, you pause for a moment at the top of the steps, confused.  “Sam?” you ask.

               “Yeah?” he answers.

               You look both ways up and down the street.  “Where’s your car?”

               “I took the bus,” he says, as though it’s the most logical thing in the world.  You turn to look at him incredulously, and he laughs, lighting up his whole face.  “I wanted to ride back with you.”

               “You’re crazy,” you say, beaming, fishing your car keys out of your pocket.  He shrugs.

               “That’s what they tell me,” he says, then lays a soft kiss on your cheek.  He nods toward your car.  “We eating, or what?” he asks, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you make your way down the stairs.

* * * * *

               You take a long look around at the bare walls and empty corners of your apartment, then step outside into the twilight and lock the door behind you for the last time.  You pause at the top of the steps, watching for a moment as Sam loads the last box into your trunk and slams the lid shut. He glances up at you and smiles, looking just like a postcard under the glow of the streetlamp with fat, fluffy snowflakes swirling around him.  “Ready?” he calls.

               You take a deep breath of cold, damp air, then your boots crunch their way down the steps to meet him.  “I’m ready,” you say, returning his smile. 

               He presses a quick kiss to your forehead.  “Want me to drive?” he asks.

               “Uhh, no chance,” you answer cheekily.  “My car. I drive.”

               “All right,” he says, chuckling. 

               He grabs you then, and pulls you into his arms, and wraps you up in a long, lingering embrace.  He sighs and rests his chin on the top of your head, and you relax into him for a moment, enjoying his warmth.  “I love you,” he says, and though he’s never said it before, it falls from his lips as naturally as a comfortable, well-worn truth.  You pull back to look up at him, surprised, and he’s smiling softly at you, shining eyes crinkled at the corners.  “Let’s go home.”


End file.
